


for which the first was made

by spacenarwhal



Series: a whole i planned, youth shows but half [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Growing Old Together, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Roman Catholicism, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 08:31:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16446395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: Foggy smooths down the collar of Matt’s dress shirt after Matt’s slipped his tie into place. “Still clean up nice, Mr Murdock.” Foggy says and Matt leans forward, follows the lodestar of his voice. He runs his palm down the length of Foggy’s tie—silk, soft, it sings under Matt’s hand—stops to run his fingers over the cool edge of Foggy’s tie clip. Matt presses the whorl of his thumb over the single raised F, smiling softly at the feel of it.“Something old.” Foggy offers. Matt snorts, “Thought that was us.”[Or: Matt grows a beard, Foggy gets kidnapped, and they finally get married.]





	for which the first was made

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure, I wrote half of this before S3 aired and the other half plus revisions after finishing S3. That said I think the biggest possible spoiler is that Father Lantom's first name is Paul. 
> 
> This a direct sequel to 'grow old with me (the best is yet to be)' which would be helpful to read first for some of the existing character dynamics herein, but not required. 
> 
> *goes back to crying about S3*

“I don’t know, Murdock, it’s all so sudden.” Each word is dewy, but the sarcasm is unmistakable. Matt doesn’t need enhanced hearing hear it in every syllable.

Motherhood has not softened Jessica Jones. If anything, Matt thinks it might have made her meaner. An accomplishment, truly, since Jessica was never exactly _nice_.

“If you don’t think you’re up for it, I can ask Danny.” He says, feeling a little guilty because it’s not that Danny hasn’t proven a friend. It’s just, when this whole ceremony thing started getting away from them and growing into this far more official capital-c type _Ceremony_ , Jessica was the first person who came to mind to play this part.

Behind him Dani’s heart spikes excitedly and Jessica must notice because she says, “He doesn’t mean you, baby.”

“Sorry, Dani.” Matt says apologetically. He wonders if this has grown into enough of a production that a flower girl wouldn’t be out of place.

Jessica punches him in the arm. “Fine, but only because the Kung Fu Kid would enjoy it too much.”

Matt rubs his bicep where Jessica struck him, knows she pulled the punch and still managed to pack a wallop. Nope, time certainly isn’t softening Jessica at all.

“Wow, thanks.” Matt answers, voice flat and humorless even as the knot of apprehension goes loose behind his navel. It’s been an adjustment, these last two months, since what Foggy has lovingly started referring to as his retirement. His worry that leaving the fight to others would hurt the friendships they’ve forged has proven false and Matt happily picks up on Jessica flipping him off. Dani’s voice calls out from behind Matt’s shoulders. “Swear jar, Mommy.”

“Worth it.” Jessica shrugs. The clink of the quarter landing atop a pile of loose change rings out of the jar and makes Matt laugh.

-

If Foggy ever doubted that Marci Stahl will one day be their tyrannical overlord, all doubts are completely erased when he opens the door just a quarter after nine one Saturday morning.

Marci’s standing there, looking ready to walk into a photoshoot while Foggy’s still wearing sweatpants he can’t say for sure aren’t Matt’s. They’re a little short in the leg.

Matt’s speedy departure to the bathroom mere seconds ago makes more sense now, Foggy thinks, still groggy and only on his first cup of coffee. The coward.

“Pack your bags, Foggybear the car is waiting for us downstairs.”

Foggy blinks. “Uh. Good morning?”

Marci slides her sunglasses off her face, stares at him the way someone might look at a child. A dumb child.

“Come on, Franklin. We’ve got reservations waiting for us at the spa and we can’t be late. You’re not supposed to let yourself go until _after_ the wedding.”

Foggy might not have super senses but he’s pretty sure he can hear Matt laughing in the bathroom.

As if summoned by Foggy’s confused annoyance, Matt appears. He’s switched out his own pajamas for jeans and a sweater, teeth brushed and hair combed. Now Foggy’s definitely underdressed.

“Dearest, did you know I was being kidnapped this morning?” Foggy asks, slipping an arm around Matt’s waist. He pinches him over the waistband of his jeans, Matt fidgets, swats Foggy’s hand away.

“Hey Marci. How you doing?”

“Fabulously, Murdock. Nice beard you’ve got going. Foggybear’s always been into the brawny man look.”

Foggy’s definitely too old to be blushing but Marci’s always known his weak spots. He clears his throat. “Right, well. Don’t want to leave the car waiting. I’ll just go get dressed.”

“Pack a bag, we’re not coming back ‘til tomorrow.” Marci informs him, her smile bright and a little calculating. It makes Foggy nervous. He’s nearly fifty but he feels a little like a freshman whose about to get hazed. He wouldn’t put it past Marci to put his underwear in the freezer.

“You’re going to have to keep yourself entertained tonight, Matthew.” Foggy hears Marci say just before he closes their bedroom door to change. His overnight bag is already waiting for him on his side of the bed, half packed with his toiletries and a spare change of close. He chuckles. “You traitor.” He says, knows Matt’s listening for it.

They agreed they didn’t need bachelor parties, seeing as they’d kissed bachelorhood goodbye long ago. What Foggy’s figuring out, though he doesn’t know why it takes him by surprise at all, is that Matt’s kind of into the old-fashioned things.

That’s why Matt asked Ma if she was okay with them getting hitched, nearly making Ma choke on her eggs, the tears in her eyes caused by laughter rather than sentiment at the question. “Franklin’s closer to fifty than fifteen, Matt, I don’t think he needs my permission to get married.” She’d said, still chuckling, and Matt had flushed red about the ears, mouth opening and closing like it does when he knows he wants to talk but doesn’t know what it is he wants to say or how to say it. It had closed into a surprisingly serious line, the kind of face he wears when addressing judges and jurors rather than at his mother’s breakfast table. “I know we don’t need permission, but I’d like your blessing all the same, if its alright. You and Edward,” Foggy clutched at his fork a little harder at the sound of Dad’s name, wished he could be here too, “you welcomed me into your home even though you didn’t have to. You’ve been—you’ve treated me like family. And it would mean a lot to me if you—”

Ma had gotten teary eyed then, all pink and wobbly, getting up so she could take Matt’s head in her wrinkled hands and drop a kiss against the crown of his head. “You already have it, Matt. Like you said, you’re family.”

And even though Foggy’s just a hair’s breadth from fifty his heart skipped and hopped, sitting right there at the same breakfast table where he’d argued with his sisters over cereal box prizes.

“I said we’re spending the night, not moving to Vermont.” Marci calls through the door, and Foggy stops procrastinating long enough to shove a few more things into his overnight bag.

Regardless of whether or not Matt threw him under the bus or was a willing conspirator, there’s no saying no to Marci Stahl.

By the time he’s back out, bag in hand, Matt’s got a travel mug of coffee waiting for him. “Have fun.” Matt says, pressing a kiss to Foggy’s cheek that Foggy turns into a full kiss when he turns his head to catch Matt’s mouth.

“Come on, come on, we don’t have time for your viagra to kick in.” Marci says impatiently, tugging on Foggy’s sleeve. In the elevator, Marci slips her arm through Foggy’s. She smells like citrus and Foggy wonders if she still uses the fancy French stuff he remembers her keeping on her vanity. He remembers the smell clinging to her sheets, and later, how it stuck in the blanket she draped over his lap while she sat with him at the hospital. Between Matt, Karen, and Marci, Foggy never sat a chemo session alone.

Foggy shifts on his feet, pats his hand over Marci’s where it rests against his arm. “So, am I allowed to ask about our itinerary or—”

Marci smiles, “We’re going to go, get beautiful, drink champagne, and because it’s your special day, I’ll even let you cry about how great Murdock’s dick is.”

Foggy grins, knocks his head against Marci’s, “Wow, you sure know how to treat a guy, Marce.”

“And don’t you forget it, Foggybear.”

-

“I’ve got something for you.” Father Lantom—Paul, Matt knows he should just call him Paul but in Matt’s mind he’s Father Lantom still, even if he’s technically been retired for the last four years.

“A donut?” Matt jokes, taking a sip of his coffee. The shop is crowded today, people seeking shelter from the cold. The tip of Matt’s nose still stings from the short walk over from the church, he imagines how red it must be every time he sniffs.

Father Lantom chuckles, pulls something out of the bag he’s been carrying all morning. “I know, these things have gone out of fashion with the younger generations and I know neither you or Franklin are hurting for money, but I’ve always been a sucker for symbolism.” He drops what feels like a handful of loose change into Matt’s open palm, but the size of the coins is off, bigger than a nickel and smaller than a quarter when Matt touches them, lighter and thinner, the image impressed on their surface nothing like any currency Matt’s touched before.

“My mother kept her wedding coins until the day she died. She said they reminded her that my father and her were partners, each of them depending on another other to see each day through and that they’d only get out of life what they were willing to put in. I guess that’s always stuck with me. And I wanted to share that with you. You’ve lived a hard life Matthew but you’ve learned to let people in, to accept the love they give you, and love them back without fear. I want you to remember that and be proud of it. Cherish it.”

Matt licks over the backs of his teeth, swallows the lump in his throat. “Thank you.” Matt says weakly, too full to speak, heart pressing up against the back of his ribcage. He transfers the coins from one palm to the other, listens to the chime of them falling, landing. Even as they come to a rest the sound of them carries on in his ears, shivers across his palm, a whisper, soft as a hymn.

“Is this like a dowry thing?” Foggy asks that night when Matt shows him the coins. “Honestly, I’m flattered Father L thinks I’m worth this much bling.” He picks up one of the coins and they all sing like a windchime caught in a breeze. “Or that you are. Either way, it’s definitely a compliment.”

Matt chews on the inside of his cheek, the idea that started sprouting roots inside his head as he walked home this morning finally breaking earth. “Did we ever figure out an officiant?” He asks though he’s already pretty sure of the answer.

Foggy hums, lets the coin fall back against the rest. “No, but Danny swears he’ll do it for free if we need him to.”

Matt nods slowly, worrying his thumb over his bottom lip before he drops both his hands to his hips. “Right. Um, I’m thinking I might have found someone.”

-

Foggy goes to pick Karen up from the airport. Matt’s back at the apartment, fussing over dinner and probably trying to deep clean their living room carpet or something because he’s been turning all his anxiety into a premature storm of spring cleaning. Honestly, Foggy doesn’t think their grout has ever been whiter and Matt can’t even see it.

Karen’s waiting for him at arrivals pick up and Foggy doesn’t care, hops out of the car with his emergency lights on so he can sweep her into his arms and give her a crushing hug. Karen pretty much screeches in his ear, her own arms locking around him, and maybe they’re both a little tear damp when they pull away but neither of them comments on it, holding one another at arm’s length so they can really take each other in. Facetime and Skype just don’t come close to the real thing.

“You’re looking good, Page.” Foggy says, because she is, her long hair held back in a ponytail and her blue eyes are bright as ever.

“You’re not looking too bad yourself, Mr Nelson.” She answers, giggling. Her smile is a wonder. Foggy misses it as intensively as he did those first few weeks after the firm closed the first time, when they all went their separate ways and Karen’s smile wasn’t an everyday occurrence anymore.

The honking and the cold finally gets them to shuffle Karen’s bags into the car, where Foggy turns the heater on to full blast and takes them back into the long line of traffic heading home.

Karen asks about the firm and about his mom, about his sisters, about Jessica and Luke and Dani, Danny and Misty, Brett and Claire, about their friends and their family, circles around the topic of his health in that skittish way people sometimes do, like talking about illness will invite it.

Foggy talks because it’s easy, because talking remains a natural talent to this day, makes Karen laugh and eases her into less of an interview mindset and more of a conversation.

They leave Karen’s bag in the trunk since she isn’t staying with them—a decision they arrived at without any kind of mayhem, just a decision, simple and clean—but she’s buzzing with energy once they’re situated in the elevator up, hands clutching her purse.

Foggy can’t understand how she or Matt feel, too wrapped up in his own affairs, going to remission and wanting to believe it would keep, still afraid to hope his life wasn’t going to be determined by the cancer in his body any longer. When Karen had finally sat him down to tell him she needed to go, Foggy did the only thing he could think of. He’d supported her, because she needed him to, scared as she was to leave.

(“You’ll always have a home here, Kare.” Foggy promised, holding Karen close, and he wanted to tell her she’d always be welcomed back without question but instead he’d just held her for as long as she’d let him and hoped she understood.)

“Brace yourself,” Foggy jokes quietly, slipping his key into the lock, “For a brand new Matt Murdock.”

Karen smiles, but it’s a bit strained along the edges, and Foggy pushes the door open, shamelessly hollering, “Honey, we’re home.”

Matt steps into the hallway from the direction of the kitchen. There’s a second’s hesitation, Foggy sees it in both of them, the way Karen and Matt both seem to freeze, assessing each other from a careful distance. Foggy looks at them, eyes shifting back and forth, feeling a little like he’s staring at two cats measuring one another, trying to decide if the other is a threat. It’s fairly ridiculous, but Foggy leaves them to it. He’s long pass wondering how he managed to befriend the two most intense people on the eastern seaboard.

Matt breaks first and Foggy feels that thrill of pride he always does when Matt surprises him, “Karen.” He says, and steps forward and then Karen’s moving too, and they meet in the middle, arms wrapping around one another in a hug that bleeds relief.

Karen’s eyes are red when she pulls back and Matt’s wiping at his own face and Foggy can’t help himself, pulls them both back into a three-person hug the likes of which they haven’t shared in years. Karen laughs, a breathless watery sound and Matt’s hand closes into a tight fist at Foggy’s back and Foggy lets himself hold them both, their heads bowed together. Foggy doesn’t know that he believes in the same God Paul and Matt talk about, but he gives thanks to the universe at large for giving them the chance to be here again, together.

-

New Year’s Eve is a rumble of voices and bodies, fireworks exploding and corks popping loose. It’s a dozen odd Nelson children running wild, full of cider and cake, and Anna walking around the room with a colander full of grapes.

“Get your wishes ready, boys.” Anna says, voice firm, and Foggy dutifully counts out twelve for Matt and twelve for himself, eats half of them as soon as his mother wanders over to the next relative.

“I don’t need that many wishes this year.” Foggy says happily, whiskey sharp on his breathe, but his mouth curves upward in a smile when he presses a kiss against Matt’s cheek. He doesn’t even complain about Matt’s facial hair, and Matt thinks he probably has the liquor to thank for the that and the physical display of affection out here in front of his whole family.

They’re getting married in five days. The thought still makes Matt’s chest fill with liquid warmth, something viscous and thick that sticks to Matt’s ribs. 

Karen’s somewhere in the room, Matt can hear her voice, speaking with one of Foggy’s cousins, or rather being spoken to, Jay’s bright, eager voice going a mile a minute, asking Karen about a dozen different stories she’s written. (“You’re, like, Jay’s real-life hero. I think she wants to be you when she grows up. Which hurts because she knows _me_.”)

“Yeah?” Matt asks, butting his head against Foggy’s, pulling away with a grin. “What are you still holding out for counselor?” It’s a joke now, the words soft in Matt’s mouth, the metallic aftertaste of them worn off now that Matt’s set aside his fear. It seems insane now, standing on the other side of that particular conversation, but Matt had been so sure when he’d approached Foggy only weeks ago, worried about the life Foggy might have had with anybody else.

(“I’ve been selfish.” Matt says, head hung and shoulders hunched, sitting among the rumpled sheets and blankets on the bed he and Foggy had picked out together. “I’ve kept you from having things—a home and a family and—I’m sorry, Fog, I’m—” Foggy’s hand closes over his clasped hands, pulls them off Matt’s lap. “Hey. I don’t know where this is coming from but listen here, Murdock. I’m happy. I’m really fucking happy with my life. And that includes you. I’ve got a home. I’ve got a family. Right here. With you. And the only hurtful thing happening here is you thinking I’m not capable of deciding that for myself.” Foggy’s mouth presses violently against Matt’s temple, against the corner of his eye. “You’re supposed to get cold feet for yourself, Matty, not for me.” Matt gasps a messy sound and he doesn’t know why he can’t stop shaking, why this rusted dread has dug so deeply into his chest. Foggy holds his hands, only lets them go to pull Matt more firmly against him, heart beating steady behind his ribs with every word he says.)

Foggy hums, munches down on another grape. “Hmm, pretty sure if won’t come true if I tell you.”

Matt’s grin widens, and Foggy’s heart goes a half-step quicker, makes Matt’s face warm. “Or it just might.” Foggy’s heart quickens just a fraction more, his body temperature rising, and Matt wonders how much trouble they can get into if they lock themselves in a closest and make out like fools.

Foggy kisses him before Matt can figure out their odds, catches Matt by surprise. His mouth is cool, sweet, lips catching Matt’s like he doesn’t mean to let go. Someone whistles behind them, Foggy’s Uncle Ned, telling them they’ve jumped the gun. “Ball hasn’t dropped yet, fellas.”

Foggy waves a hand behind Matt’s back, draws a mix of cackles and one indignant, “ _Franklin Nelson”_ from Anna. Matt can guess at what Foggy’s done.

Foggy pulls back, laughing, breathless, and Matt feels lighter, bigger, realer than he has in a long time. He knows it’s not just the alcohol talking.

-

They spend their last night as not-husbands together. It feels like any other night in their life and Foggy’s glad for it, feels some type of gratitude standing at the kitchen sink while Matt clears out the refrigerator because tomorrow might be their wedding day but it’s also garbage day and it needs to get done.

Later, lying in bed, their bed, Foggy laughs against Matt’s navel, stomach still firm with muscle and marked by scars that crisscross like train tracks, the oldest ones and the newer ones, all of them committed to memory behind Foggy’s eyes. Matt squirms when Foggy blows a raspberry against his side, giggling in a way that no one would ever believe, but Matt’s still ticklish right there after all this time, and Foggy does it again just to prove it.

Matt’s been off the streets for nearly three months now, but he still gets up almost every morning at the crack of dawn to go put his time in at the pool. Foggy understands, in a way he didn’t before he got sick, what it means to Matt to have control over his body, to know it and set the limits on what it can do. And he loves it the same way he loves all the rest of Matt, but right now, cheek nuzzling over the sharp angle of Matt’s hip, he wonders what it’ll be like in ten years, in fifteen. He’s dizzy imagining what Matt might look like in twenty, whether he’ll go full salt and pepper with a beard to match, body softening the way bodies do when they have time to get comfortable.

Matt worried, will probably worry again, about the life Foggy might have had if he’d set his heart on someone else, but all Foggy wants is this. Once, he settled for having Matt alive, but now he gets to have so much more. Matt happy and Matt content, Matt laughing and wiggling against their silk sheets, his stupid knee and the mole on the inside of his right thigh right where Foggy can kiss it. In another life Foggy might have had something different, a wife, a husband, kids, a dog. He could have been a butcher. He could have stayed at L&Z or with HCB or become DA. He might have never gotten sick. He might have died.

But Foggy’s not worried about any of those lives, not now, not ever, not when he has this. “I love you.” He says, whispers it against Matt’s kneecap, first one and then the other, against the thin soft skin that lines the insides of his thighs. He says it to Matt’s hips and he breathes it against Matt’s navel, while Matt shivers overhead, impatient but still so eager to be good.

“Foggy.” He breathes, and Foggy gives him what he wants, takes Matt in his mouth, slowly, sets a leisurely pace that leaves Matt panting, hands grasping at any part of Foggy he can touch. His shoulder, his neck, one palm resting against the side of Foggy’s face, moaning when Foggy lets him feel where his dick nudges up against the inside of Foggy’s mouth.

Matt says Foggy’s name, fingers gentle in Foggy’s hair after Foggy swallows, and the sound of it is ripe with disbelief, like Foggy’s something Matt can’t be sure is really there.

“I’ve got you, Matty.” Foggy promises, rubbing his hands against Matt’s sides, touching his nose to the sweat slick curve of Matt’s shoulder. It still takes Matt a minute to get himself back together afterward, and Foggy presses close, gives Matt the shelter he needs to do it. “I’m right here.”

-

Foggy smooths down the collar of Matt’s dress shirt after Matt’s slipped his tie into place. “Still clean up nice, Mr Murdock.” Foggy says and Matt leans forward, follows the lodestar of his voice. He runs his palm down the length of Foggy’s tie—silk, soft, it sings under Matt’s hand—stops to run his fingers over the cool edge of Foggy’s tie clip. Matt presses the whorl of his thumb over the single raised F, smiling softly at the feel of it. (“Ah, man, you didn’t have to—” Foggy drawls but beneath the levity of his voice, his heart thunders, beats out an erratic rhythm that speaks of surprise. When his arms close around Matt, his hands press gratitude into the expanse of Matt’s back and Matt hides his face, happy, proud, soaking in the warmth of him.)

“Something old.” Foggy offers, and Matt snorts, “Thought that was us.”

-

Karen is already waiting for them in the banquet hall at the back of the restaurant. Matt liked the windows, made a bad joke about enjoying the view that made the event coordinator uncomfortable. The view isn’t much but the windows still let in a whole lot of light. The event coordinator gushed about how nice it was in the spring, but Foggy thinks it’s wonderful enough right now, watching the small room slowly fill with the people who matter most.

“Ready?” Karen asks, appearing at Foggy’s side seemingly out of nowhere, rosy in shades of pink and gold.

“Born ready.” Foggy answers, looking around for Matt. He finds him over by the refreshment table, holding Dani up so she can reach for one of the cupcakes on the top tier of a cake stand. “You ready, Matty?” He asks, not raising his voice, but knowing nonetheless that Matt is listening.

Across the room Matt turns towards the doorway, smiling.

In a back office, sandwiched between Karen and Jessica—who put in the effort of putting on an ironed pair of slacks and an actual blouse—Matt and Foggy officially get married according to the state of the New York in the time it takes to gather four signatures. Karen produces a pack of tissues from somewhere in her bag and Jessica actually smiles, cuffs Foggy’s shoulder and grabs Matt in an one-armed hug that looks partially like a headlock.

“Sure we can’t just start drinking now?” Foggy jokes, kissing Matt—his husband, his husband, his very own, and it’s not that Foggy doubts that Matt wants him, but there’s something, heady, maddening, to think Matt’s his and now everyone will know it—and Matt’s hands squeeze at Foggy’s sides, wrinkle the dress shirt he helped Foggy button this morning. “Pretty sure your mom would kill us if we skipped right to the party. She’s been waiting a pretty long time to watch you settle down.”

Foggy snorts, because Ma makes it sound like he hasn’t been in a committed relationship with Matt for longer than ten years, longer than two decades if you take into account all those years before, as roommates and classmates and business partners and best friends. Foggy’s been settled for a long time.

“Sure she’s not just waiting for a chance to object?” Foggy challenges, just to contrary.

Matt hums pensively, palms sweeping towards the small of Foggy’s back under his suit jacket. He ducks closer and steals another kiss, “I’ll risk it.”

-

“When Matthew asked me to officiate today, I was honestly surprised. I thought my days of helping people get married were behind me.” Father Lantom’s voice is old oak, tested, sure, and Matt listens to it even as his heart accelerates, nerves prickling along his back. He wonders if he would have been better off in a clerk’s office. “I’ve known Matthew for many years now, and, as I’m sure many of you know, there is no way of knowing Matthew without getting to know Franklin.” There’s a quiet murmur of chuckles, and Foggy’s hand squeezes around Matt’s wrist, draws a small smile out of hiding, settles some of the unexpected nerves bubbling in his belly.

“Their partnership has spanned years and many trials, and today they’ve brought us here to witness as they enter a new partnership, using all they have learned together about love, forgiveness, loss, and joy, to come together as spouses.”

It isn’t a long ceremony, not the hour long services Matt used to listen to through the walls of Saint Agnes, and even without all the markers and rituals that make a Mass, it fills Matt’s body with impossible warmth that pulses in time with Foggy’s beating heart.

-

They didn’t write their own vows. There’s so much Foggy has to say but little he wants to share with anyone but Matt.

(“I promise to always buy you the best beard butter to keep your grizzly face perfect.” Foggy whispers with all the solemnity he can, and Matt keeps his face perfectly composed when he leans close and answers, “I promise to always tell you which avocados are black on the inside before you buy them.”)

Instead Paul recites the traditional number, asks them each to promise to love each other in good times and bad, in sickness and health, for better or worse, for the rest of their lives.

It feels like putting the cart in front of the horse, a promise they’ve already lived out, that they’ve kept time and again.

“I do.” Matt answers, gripping Foggy’s hands tight, and Foggy knew it was coming but it still makes his face split into a wild grin.

“There’s no one I’d rather be doing this with, buddy. Seriously.” Foggy says, watching Matt’s face the entire time, the curve of his mouth when he smiles, the way his cheeks round, the lines that peek out from behind the frames of his glasses.

-

“Are you Nelson?” Brett asks, gesturing at Matt, “Or are you Murdock?” He turns on his heel, swivels towards Foggy.

Behind them, on the small dance floor, Danny is dancing with Dani, Luke at the bar with Claire and Misty, talking about Dani’s upcoming swim meet. Karen is sitting at a table, shoes kicked off now, talking with Candance Nelson, something about decorating the honeymoon suite, even though it’s their bedroom back home. Jessica is arm wrestling with Foggy’s cousin Ryan.

“Oh,” Foggy answers, sounding some mixture of surprised and disappointed, “Why didn’t we think of that?”

“It would give me top billing for once,” Matt answers, trying to sound contemplative, “And we wouldn’t have to change the sign.”

“That right, Mr Nelson?” Foggy asks, and Matt can’t see his face, but his voice is as clear as any smile Matt can trace with his fingertips.

Matt tilts his head, “I think so, Mr Murdock.”

Brett sighs under his breath, “Ugh, way to kill a joke guys.”

-

Their apartment is exactly like they left it.

It’s the same home they’ve shared for nearly a decade, the same wallpaper, the same carpet. Foggy doesn’t know why he thought it would be different. It’s just home and that’s always been enough.

His dress shoes are starting to pinch and his suit is wrinkled from the dancing, the hugs, his hair starting to wilt into his eyes. It’s been a long day.

Behind him, Matt almost seems to sway on his feet, leans his chest against Foggy’s back more firmly, arms wrapped around Foggy’s waist as they shuffle further into the apartment.

“You hungry?” Foggy asks, because dinner feels like it was hours ago, but Matt just shakes his head, noses at the side of Foggy’s throat.

They end up in the bedroom, strip off their suit jackets, their dress shirts, step out of their pants. There’s no intention behind the act and Matt’s oddly quiet through most of it.

“C’mon.” Foggy says, taking Matt’s hand, leading him towards the bathroom. The shower’s big enough for the two of them, nothing like the tiny coral tub Foggy had in the first apartment he ever rented on his own. He used to sit Matt on the edge of that tub, peel the parchment wings off band-aids and stick them to the open cuts on Matt’s face after a night of fighting the evils of Hell’s Kitchen. Somedays it really does feel like a miracle that either of them have survived this long.

“Foggy.” Matt says, his voice echoing softly against the tiles as the water falls over them from above.

Foggy picks up Matt’s left hand, raises it to his mouth. He presses a kiss to the thin gold band on his ring finger, another to the heart of his palm. Matt blushes pink, and it’s hard to say if its because of the warm water or not.

“You happy, Matty?” Foggy asks. There are so many scars, small, almost unnoticeable at first glance, nicks and scratches that Foggy remembers bled like they would never stop in the moment.

Matt uses Foggy’s hold on his left hand to bring Foggy’s hand up against his chest, presses it palm down against his skin. Foggy almost snorts, but the sound gets stopped up in his throat. He tries to focus, tries to feel Matt’s heart beating under his hand, through the skin and muscle that keeps it safe. “Yeah—yes—I am.”

Foggy doesn’t know that he can feel Matt’s heart, but he doesn’t need to. Because Matt’s face is soft, shower water following the curve of his cheekbone, the rise of his lips, down the slope of his nose, all of Matt on display for Foggy to see. The good and the bad and the beautiful. And Foggy loves it all.


End file.
